


First Rest

by schneefink



Category: Legend of Eli Monpress - Rachel Aaron
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:44:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7675939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schneefink/pseuds/schneefink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a hundred years, the new Hunter rests for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Rest

A black line appeared in the air in the middle of the otherwise completely white room. The sound of scratching and howling, usually so faint as to be almost inaudible, grew louder and louder. When the line reached the floor it widened into a gap. For a moment the darkness of the other side was visible; then a white figure stepped through and the gap closed behind it.

"Brother," the Weaver greeted him.

The former Lord of Storms nodded at him. He looked around and sat down on the white couch that the Weaver had already prepared, let his head fall back and closed his eyes. The Weaver sat down on a chair opposite of him and took the opportunity to look at him closely.

Physically, the new Hunter looked a lot like the old one: tall, powerful, imposing. Unlike his predecessor, he wore a long coat. In a hundred years in his new role outside the world he had lost most of the storm he once was, but there was still a faint aura of wind and lightning in his hair. 

He looked tired. Not yet exhausted, not like the Hunter had looked after five thousand years of fighting. On the contrary, there was a sense of satisfaction around him, knowledge of a fight well fought. It reminded the Weaver of how his brother had looked in the first millennia after their father had left. In the first millennia the Hunter had been proud of his fight and confident that the demons would be defeated soon.

For a moment he missed his little brother so much that he felt as if his chest caved in.

The Hunter – the new one, his new younger brother who was still a stranger to him – opened his eyes and sat up. He looked at the Weaver, and the Weaver looked back. He wasn't sure what he should do. It had always been Benehime who had welcomed their brother on his rare visits, Benehime who knew how to get him to relax.

Benehime who had used that knowledge to betray and kill him. 

"How is the world?" the new Hunter asked.

The Weaver was grateful for the interruption of his thoughts. "Fewer spirits are going to sleep," he said. "Some are even waking up that went to sleep centuries ago. Miranda was right: giving the spirits their own will and facilitating communication with the humans made them more active."

The Hunter's features softened infinitesimally. "She would be happy to know that."

"She did. She lived until the age of eighty." She had been Rector Spiritualis for over five decades, unprecedented in the history of the order. It was largely her influence that the Spirit Awakening in the Council Kingdoms had been far less chaotic and contentious than in other countries, and later on she had even sent Spiritualists to these other countries to help there too.

She was a human, but for a very brief moment she had been the Shepherdess. Every once in a while the Weaver had checked in on her, and he'd been glad to see her busy but content.

"And the Daughter?"

"Dead."

The Hunter started. "Did Alric kill her?"

"No." Alric had her watched as much as he could: the Daughter had become very good at hiding from the League's senses, but Alric had become very good at finding her companions and thus her. It had become almost a game between them that had lasted for decades. "Her companions died, the thief and the swordsman. She killed herself a few years later."

A gust of wind escaped the Hunter and dissolved in the air. "Good," he said simply. 

Only then did the Weaver remember for how long the Lord of Storms had tried to capture the Daughter of the Dead Mountain. He'd been an agent of the Shepherdess, and for millennia the Weaver hadn't paid close attention to the spirits. If he had – if he'd spoken with his sister more often, if he'd seen what was bothering her, maybe he could have – 

With effort, he banished these thoughts. "How are you faring, brother?"

The Hunter seemed surprised by the question. "The fight goes well," he said. "The Lord of the Dead Mountain is by far the strongest demon left. I was glad to see him out there, and glad to fight him. He is a worthy opponent." A small, vicious smile appeared on his face, and his sword appeared to glow. 

"The world is grateful for your protection."

"It is my purpose," the Hunter said simply. "I was created to fight demons." 

"Still."

If the Weaver remembered correctly, Benehime had created the Lord of Storms soon after her own birth. All this time, and he hadn't grown tired of his task yet. The Weaver wondered if that should give him hope, if the new Hunter would be able to fight despair longer than the old one. However, there was a big difference between hunting the seeds of one demon in the world and fighting the countless demons outside of it.

For several minutes, neither of them spoke.

It was uncomfortable to look into his brother's face and see a stranger there. Before their father had left, the siblings had spent at least some time together before separating to fulfill the roles they were created for. Even though they had only seen each other once every hundred years, his brother had always felt familiar to him. Abandoned by their father they might have been, but they still had each other. Now his brother and his sister were both dead, one scattered among billions and the other reborn into another spirit. An hour every hundred years was hardly enough to get to know anyone, much less a brother. The Weaver didn't even know if his brother was interested in getting to know him. 

"The League of Storms still exists," the Hunter said suddenly, sounding faintly surprised. "I can feel them. Are they still needed?"

"It barely exists," the Weaver said. "There are no demon seeds left, and after the Daughter died they had no purpose. However, some of them are still alive. Your Deputy, Alric, said he wouldn't officially disband the League until he had your permission to do so." 

"Hm." The Hunter stood up, clearly preparing to leave.

"Wait," the Weaver said quickly, standing up as well. The Hunter looked at him, and the Weaver didn't know what else he'd wanted to say. "Brother," he said eventually. "If you… if you need anything. You are not alone."

"I won't fail you," the Hunter promised. "Not like _she_ did." 

"I believe you," the Weaver said, and at that moment he meant it completely. "Good hunting."

"I'll see you in a hundred years," the Hunter said and disappeared.

As soon as he'd vanished, the Weaver heard the scratching of claws from outside the Wall. The reason why Benehime had been the one to welcome the Hunter back was that during his breaks the Weaver's work was even more difficult and necessary than usual. Sometimes the brothers had barely spoken in several hundred years. 

That would not happen again, the Weaver vowed. He would not lose the last of his siblings. The world was strong enough to survive on its own for a few minutes, and the rest of the time it was protected. The Weaver closed his eyes and wove.


End file.
